Contingency Planning
by cHiMer
Summary: Picking a fight with the most dangerous paramilitary organization on Earth was, in retrospect, a grave mistake, one from which there can be no recovery. But what good is a secret society that does not try to plan ahead even in the face of its own imminent destruction?


They failed. Centuries of preparation, careful work, plans within plans that would take decades to bear fruit - all gone, all become ash, all snatched from his very grasp on the eve of ultimate victory.

During a better time, when he had more _control_, the impeccably dressed man occupying the room's most luxurious armchair would stare for hours into the scarlet projection of a world full of little, poor, ignorant people that would forever remain oblivious to the true nature - and true glory - of their puppeteers. But alas, the chaff - so small-minded, so powerless, so... irrelevant - would survive, and they would not.

It took a will and mind of titanic strength to resist the urge to panic. Unsurprisingly, the man in the armchair was one of such mind and willpower, having reached his position through wits alone. And right now, he was straining these wits to their limits, furiously processing countless memories, plans, projections and outcomes in an attempt to figure out just where had things gone so horribly wrong. Composed he might have been, but even he felt his control on his bruised ego slip. He hated that. Someone of his position always had to be in control, _always_.

Brooding was not going to do much good, and yet what he was doing right now amounted to exactly that.

"Director."

There were many before him, but he was only the third to be called that - and only that, for his true name was long forgotten even in the highest echelons of his organization, painted over with several dozen fake identities and mysterious disappearances. 'Director' was the only form of address that he had left, and all that he felt was ever needed. Even though the spacious room around him suggested an atmosphere of unnecessary opulence, EXALT would not have reached its current standing in the world without keeping utility in mind as well. In fact, this argument of form over function - or rather, contentment versus further ambition - had managed to split the organization but a century before. Like the two incidents of internal strife before it, it ended rather amicably. After all, this was an organization of men of significantly higher than average intelligence, and most of them understood the benefits of cooperation and compromise. The ones who did not or would not see the error of their ways still served the common goal in the end - only as an example.

The Director focused his gaze for a second on the glass case containing the skull of one such overly ambitious fellow. Usually he did it for sport, a bit of amused satisfaction at seeing the last of his predecessors to use the laughably self-aggrandizing title of 'Master' laid so low in the end. The two other victims of EXALT's rather harsh peer review procedure were forcibly retired in a more intact state, their shameful legacy instead being represented by their ornate helmets and personal arms.

Right now, however, the Director could not help but feel that the skull was laughing back at him. For all the setbacks his unrestrained ambition inflicted upon the organization, it was still not as bad as its imminent, outright destruction during the Director's own reign.

"Director," the voice from behind him addressed him again, attempting to snap him out of sinking into historical recollections.

With a slight hand gesture, he invited the two men trying to get his attention to approach and speak.

The latter promptly emerged from the shadows to take their place at the Director's sides. The blonde man who had been speaking earlier still adhered to the organization's informal dress code - casual business attire with an orange tie - but the sight of a ballistic vest, tactical webbing and disturbing skin discoloration around the wrists reminded the Director that the time for subterfuge and backroom dealings was long over. Whether he liked it or not, EXALT was in a state of open war, for the first time in its millennial history.

"Our contacts at NORAD have reported an unidentified military aircraft that has just crossed the southern border. The intercepted radio traffic refers to it as 'Big Sky'. It's headed directly for this facility," the operative reported, his voice calm and even despite delivering such horrible news.

"Not at all surprising, Mr. Jones," the Director replied quietly. "If anything, I expected them to show up at our doorstep sooner."

And this war EXALT found itself in - it lost. Hundreds of agents just like the one reporting to him - carefully raised, trained and indoctrinated over the span of many decades, some being able to proudly trace their descent from entire dynasties that had served the organization for centuries; skilled workers, successful entrepreneurs, model family men and, most importantly, priceless and fanatically loyal operatives - all dead, all trampled into dust by what by all accounts should have been a joke venture nobody even took seriously. Not until it started fielding genetically modified troops and horrifying mechanized abominations, at least. By then it was too late to pull strings from behind the scenes - the resulting monster answered to no single authority, and responded to all attempts to shut it down with lethal force.

Clearly, it was time for the Director to reassess his own and the organization's priorities. Or rather, it would be the time, had they any left.

"Director," Jones - an assumed name, of course - voiced a question. "What is our plan B?"

"Plan B?" the older man asked, amused. "I assume that means we have a plan A?"

"We have around eighty elite agents in this building, Director. I do believe that we stand a reasonable chance of fending off an attack on our own base and on our own terms."

"No, we don't," the Director cut him off rather harshly. "Every time we engaged them in open combat - we failed. If they are coming here, they will be bringing the best they got - and then some. I have no doubt they're bringing the girl with them, too."

"Do you think they will try to use her... unique ability, Director?" asked the other agent, outwardly nearly indistinguishable from his counterpart save for the lack of combat gear and signs of genetic tampering.

"Maybe, maybe not, Mr. Williams. The question should be - do we even want to risk the slightest possibility of mass mind control of the personnel in this facility? I think not."

"Then... we evacuate? Hide?" Jones tilted his head. "This isn't how we work. With all due respect."

"It's a tough choice, Mr. Jones, and I agree that it goes against every fiber of our respective beings. But consider it this way - what do we do, even we win? Our base will be in ruins. Our funds will be spent on trying to rebuild. They will be back to hit us again, and next time they might send a cruise missile in place of the troops.

"In the middle of the city, Director?" Williams raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"_'Collateral damage is regrettable, but not discouraged,'_ as one of their more recent tactical manuals has so eloquently put it. I would not put it past them to try. Even if they don't, the end result will be the same - ruin, oblivion, more valuable operatives such as yourself dead and our millennial dream shattered for good. We are not _them_, gentlemen, and I'm proud of it. We are above recruiting random rabble to throw into the grinder."

One problem the Director has always noted in his young subordinates was that they were highly idealistic, fanatical even... and arrogant, perhaps. Would this hubris become their undoing in the end?

"A last stand will get us nowhere. Yes. I understand, Director."

"_We_ understand," Jones corrected his comrade.

No, perhaps it would not. There was hope yet - if not for EXALT, then for its people.

"I am glad that you see it my way, gentlemen. Now, there is something rather unpleasant I have to ask of you, Mr. Jones."

"Just name it and I'll get it done," Jones replied with unsurprising eagerness. He, like the rest of them, was rather unused to the sight of the Director being out of cards to play. It would put him at ease if the Director could at least pretend to know what he was doing. Even if pretend was all he could do.

"Gather a group of... volunteers. No more than twenty. They are to stay behind and fight the attackers off for however long they're able. Let me stress that again: volunteers. I will not order anyone to their deaths again."

"Nineteen volunteers, Director," Jones immediately answered in a manner that made it clear he had made up his mind.

"Eighteen," his partner stated with just as much resolve.

The Director shook his head. "Nineteen, Mr. Williams. I applaud your bravery, but your talents lie elsewhere. This is not your battle."

"But-" Williams attempted to object – a first, as far as the Director could recall.

"I know full well what you want to say, Mr. Williams. You have yet a part to play... one that could enable our ideals, our dream to survive us. This part does not take place here."

A rather unsubtle form of flattery, the Director scolded himself in his mind, but it worked. Williams' dissent was nipped in the bud. Besides, what he had said was mostly true.

"What might that be, Director?"

"It's... a fairly long exposition. Mr. Jones, how much time do we have before the enemy force arrives?"

"Approximately forty to forty-five minutes, Director."

"Slightly less than I'd like to say farewell, but alas. Beggars can't be choosers. First things first, Mr. Jones. Wipe all our databases save the financial ones, destroy all personnel documentation and do the same for all research and intelligence assets we cannot evacuate. And," the next part came out noticeably strained, even the Director being in obvious pain over having to let go of the EXALT's greatest achievements, "that includes the gene labs and the workshops. Leave them nothing. I will wait for you to return. You deserve to know what this is all for."

The command center filled up with the skyscraper's inhabitants as Jones relayed the orders over his earpiece, both field operatives and civilian personnel scrambling to fulfill what would become their last orders in the critically short timeframe.

Some time passed as the Director watched Jones pick nineteen agents out of eighty, who had, naturally, all volunteered to stay behind. Only after he was done and had returned to the Director's side did the latter finally begin to divulge what would become his last grand scheme.

"Humor me, Mr. Williams. What does the name of our adversary mean?"

The agent answered readily, if a bit unsure as to the implications of the question. "It stands for 'Extraterrestrial Combat Unit', Director."

"Very good. I believe it states their purpose in this world clearly enough. They were created to fight the alien threat - let us go with their perception for a while - and fight they do. I must admit that they do it rather well. Perhaps they will even win."

"Win?" Jones asked. "Just what would be a 'win' in their books?"

"It's a fairly nebulous objective, as neither they nor us know the true nature of what their enemy actually is. If they lose, our master plan will proceed unimpeded, albeit our current predicament will certainly affect our ability to fully implement it. But let us assume that through some fluke or the other, they manage to destroy, rout or otherwise incapacitate the entire alien expeditionary force. A well-deserved victory that shall be, but what then?"

"They'll be left without a purpose," Williams immediately took a guess. The Director smiled. The young man had it in him.

"Spot on. Of course, they will try to position the organization as far too valuable to disband, and it will persist in some form. But it will be a paper tiger by that point. Purposeless, penniless and utterly harmless."

"A perfect time for us to resurface," Jones guessed.

The Director shook his head. "So it would seem, but no. There won't be that many of us left to resurface, Mr. Jones, and as soon as they catch a glimpse of even a shadow of our former self, they'll be revitalized and pull off a repeat performance of what they are about to do here today. No. Our name is not a fancy abbreviation, it states our purpose for all to see. To exalt. To transcend. To evolve. Each of us who survives this day shall become a new order unto himself. It will take us decades, perhaps even a century or two instead of mere years like we planned, but humanity will be uplifted. And we and our successors, direct or spiritual, will be back where we belong, steering those we watch over into this new, glorious future. No-no," the Director snapped out of his grand speech to stop a passing agent reaching for the glass case with the ancient artifacts. "Leave those. Leave the art, too. We must leave the impression that we were taken by surprise and wiped out. And our financial records too, remember to preserve those. We will not be able to make any use of them ever again, anyway."

"Speaking of leaving, Director," Williams started, "it is time for you to leave as well."

The Director sighed. "I suppose you are right. Help me up."

Both agents rushed to the Director, Jones gently helping the old man up from his chair while Williams handed him his walking cane and overcoat.

Perhaps the Director had made another mistake. His time had long since come and gone. Perhaps he should not have remained at his post for as long as he did. This wasn't quite the passing of the torch he had planned for the new blood.

But first came the other agent, one who would stay and fight to the end. Turning to the gene-modded operative, the Director offered him the firmest handshake he could afford in his frailty. "Farewell, Mr. Jones. I regret not having been a better leader, so that you could live on. For what it's worth, I promise your sacrifice will not go to waste."

Jones said nothing as he took the offered hand into his own, his solemn face doing it for him. The Director's failing sight mercifully failed to notice the suspicious glint in the corners of the agent's eyes, at least, as the realization that he was sending off a trusted, loyal subordinate and nineteen others like him to their deaths left him devastated already.

With a heavy heart, the two men turned away from each other, Jones going along to organize the defenders, while the Director and Williams entered the elevator.

"There will be a new beginning, Director," the younger man attempted to console his superior. "You just said so yourself."

"I certainly have, Mr. Williams," the Director grinned weakly. "But I have also just finished leading our ancient order to utter ruin. Are you sure I'm the man to trust?"

"Absolutely," the agent spared no time for answering. "The insinuation that I could believe otherwise is, frankly, insulting."

"My apologies then," the Director said, still grinning. "I said earlier, Mr. Williams, that you still have a part to play. But I did not tell you about your part, specifically."

The elevator reached the ground floor of the skyscraper, and not a moment too soon. A distant explosion upstairs rattled the entire building. Just to mark that it wasn't random, a pre-recorded message sounded throughout the building via the PA system.

_"Attention: unauthorized access detected. Security breach in progress. All personnel, report to security stations."_

"So they're here," the Director sighed as Williams ushered him towards the exit. The lobby was already empty, non-combat personnel having all evacuated already. The Director wondered how many would survive. Hopefully the aliens would steal the spotlight back soon enough and let the remaining cells cover up their tracks in peace. Hopefully. Few victors passed up an opportunity for a witch-hunt.

_"Attention: hostile forces have breached the facility, repeat: hostile forces have breached the facility. Enact security protocol: Alpha."_

Williams would have rolled his eyes at the pretentiousness of that last part if the situation wasn't so dire. Security protocol Alpha was basically a fancy term for 'throw everything and everyone we have at them'.

The younger agent helped his superior get inside the nondescript black sedan parked practically at the front door. Even through the rain, he could already hear the sounds of gunfire coming from several hundred feet above, prompting him to hurry up and get behind the wheel himself.

"You see, Mr. Williams," the Director resumed speaking as they drove off, "you are one of our precious few agents with a respectable and visible public profile, no to mention your own considerable personal assets. Your father was quite the businessman, and so far you have not shamed his legacy. When the time comes - and only you will know when that time comes - you will use those assets and your own remarkable skills to pull a reversal of what has happened today."

"I... how?" Even with his considerable acumen, Williams was left clueless by the enigmatic statement.

"Remember all the talk we've had about what would become of our would-be killers after the war?"

The sudden flash of realization nearly made Williams swerve into the oncoming lane. "Of course! With CFN withdrawing support, they'll turn to private funding!"

"I knew I chose right," the Director noted with subtle pride. "I'm sure that by the time the events I predicted will occur, you'll be able to seize control – perhaps partial, but hopefully full – of the entire organization."

"But what then?" Williams asked the obvious question.

"You will maintain it, of course," the Director stated. "Even if the aliens lose, they will be back sooner or later. They weren't a pleasure to negotiate with, given our unfortunate experience with the Furies, and I imagine next time they'll skip straight to the shooting. Whether we like or not, the idea behind such a... militant agency turned out to be a sound one, and perhaps we should have supported it instead of trying to fight it. Such a defense force will have to be retained, or, in the worst case scenario, re-established. And in the times of peace... I'm sure you'll be able to mold it into something furthering our goals. Our greatest enemy will, for all intents and purposes, replace us in our eternal quest for safeguarding and uplifting humanity. Eventually."

"It will be under close scrutiny, Director. Who is to say I won't end up in the position of a donor without much say in actually running things?"

"The world will be a different place by then. Even you would be surprised to discover just how much work we used to do to keep the status quo from unraveling at the seams and unleashing chaos. Obviously, we are not in a position to do so any longer. But during chaos, there is always great opportunity. Use it to your advantage, and you will have control. Could you pull over here?"

Nodding, Williams steered the car towards the sidewalk of an empty street. His questioning look at the Director after coming to a full stop was met with a solemn sigh.

"Now I'm afraid, Mr. Williams, this is where we part ways. I have done my part for EXALT, for better or, more likely, worse, and my time is running out. I will no longer restrict you in any way. However you choose, or even if you choose to uphold our legacy at all is now up to you. Seek out the others who might have survived this day if you can, but as for me..."

"Director..."

"...I have failed you, Jones and many others. I am afraid I'd be nothing but a burden to our - no, to _your_ operation, so this is where I get off. Please, do not bother looking for me."

"It... I understand, Director," Williams finally nodded. "It might take me years, but I will find a way."

The beaten old man once known as the Director smiled for the last time as he shook hands with his last friend on Earth. "Make no mistake, I deeply regret that I will not live long enough to see it. But I believe I have left what remains of our legacy in the most capable hands I know. Goodbye and best of luck in your future endeavors, Mr. Williams," the Director said as he climbed outside, not without some difficulty. "We will not meet again, but I will be watching you for however long I'm able."

Somehow, the agent - or ex-agent, rather, was able to instantly see some subtle change that transformed one of the most powerful men on Earth into a unassuming senior slowly walking away into the Toronto night. When the old man finally vanished from sight, Williams shifted his gaze onto the rearview mirror.

The fire on top of the skyscraper was but speck from this distance, but to Williams it looked like a ranging inferno consuming all he had ever accomplished and believed.

Minutes started to stretch into hours as he sat there with ignition off, nothing but the sound of falling droplets and working windshield wipers to keep him company as he watched his life's purpose burn. A part of him kept hoping for a miracle, that Jones or someone else was going to call him to tell that they've held out, and they would all return to the base and come up with a _proper_ plan, not one that rested solely on his shoulders.

It did not happen. The fires kept burning, and he kept watching them until the emergency services, still working despite the constant alien attacks, finally put them out. He felt like he had just witnessed a Viking funeral of his entire family. However, there was no time for proper mourning.

F. Denman Williams had a lot of work to do.


End file.
